Hands Don't Lie
by PadfootIsMyHomeDawg
Summary: A study of 15 pairs of hands, or how Harry knows to trust people. Not quite sure what to put as the genre…there's a bit of angst at the end, but mostly just thoughtful throughout…


A/N: Hi there! So I got this idea in my head, and I couldn't drop it, so I typed it out in a day. Sorry if there's any spelling errors…I'm not exactly a professional here – this is fanfiction, after all!

Hope you guys enjoy – it was really fun to write, even with all the angst! ;)

...

Harry Potter opened his eyes when he heard a high-pitched shriek. He immediately started crying, as most 15-month-olds are wont to do when they are suddenly and rudely awoken to and by something unpleasant.

A light slap to his cheek startled him so much that he stopped crying – but just for a moment. For after a couple of seconds staring up at the horse-like features of the woman standing over him, his fear manifested itself as he started crying again.

The next 20 minutes were a blur of shouts of and confusion, and of his own cries. Finally the ugly woman grabbed him in her bony hands and shoved him into a very small room – a room on like any that Harry had ever seen before. In fact, in the coming months and years, he would discover that it wasn't a room at all. After all, what room held cleaning supplies such as chemicals and mops and brooms, and hardly any room for a little boy to so much as sleep in? The woman closed the door, shrouding him in darkness and only making him cry louder in fear, not knowing what was going on.

Over time, the woman he learned was his Aunt Petunia would shout and yell at him – for this thing or that thing, forcing him to do chores...but even worse – she forced him to listen to her ugly insults to him and his parentage.

He could learn to ignore that though. And he did. It was the only way he could make it through a day without getting angry and doing something freaky.

But the one thing he could never ignore – the one thing he always had to be careful to watch and never forget about – were her hands.

Her hands did a lot. They worked – though not nearly as much as Harry's did. They made dinner, though usually when Aunt Petunia made dinner, it was something that there would be no risk of her burning her own hands. Those dinners were for Harry to make.

Aunt Petunia's hands gardened – sometimes. If the weather was nice. She didn't have nice hands – they were rather bony, the skin stretching to cover them. One could call them grotesque. (But no one did.) They were not soft hands, as Harry imagined his mother probably had, when she was alive.

They were capable hands, yes, but the main reason they were a concern to Harry was because they could move incredibly fast. If Harry wasn't paying attention, he might not see the slap coming. Her hands were bony; they wouldn't provide any comfort against his face. They caused more damage than a regular hand probably would've. Her strikes with her hands caused bruises to bloom under his skin. He avoided her hands as much as he could. If he didn't watch her hands, he might not see her pick up a frying pan to swing towards his head. That had happened before. Many times. But he had only failed to duck once. After that, Harry was not eager to repeat the experience, so he watched.

...

Uncle Vernon's hands were hands to be watched as well. He didn't move as fast as his wife, but he was no sloth, either. He had a particular affinity for strangling. Whenever he was upset – with Harry or with work – he often took it out by choking Harry. It had been worse when Harry was a toddler and slower than his uncle, but as he grew in age, he became faster and was able to run when Vernon's pudgy hands started twitching.

Harry watched Vernon's hands whenever they were in the same room. It became habit after years of living with his relatives. He never knew when Vernon might suddenly decided that enough was enough – he was tired of being angry – and it was time to take it out on his nephew. He would squeeze and strangle and choke the little boy until he passed out – or even after that, sometimes. Only the threat of jail should he kill the boy kept him from actually asphyxiating the boy until his heart stopped beating. And Harry knew that. But he had read books, and he knew that if he went so long without oxygen to his brain, he could suffer from brain damage. It could even damage his optic nerves and cause him to lose his sight, should it happen frequently.

So when the vein stood out on his uncle's forehead, when his face slowly began to turn purple, when his fat, pudgy, violent, strong, abusive hands started inching toward Harry – toward his neck – Harry ran.

...

Dudley's hands were frequently covered in food. He was rather a pig, Harry reflected frequently. But his weight helped him in his boxing. It helped him in his bullying. It helped him in his Harry-hunting.

Dudley's hands were much like his father's. They were pudgy. They were fat. They were strong. They were violent. They were abusive. They were bullying. Dudley did a lot with his hands. When he was getting ready to beat up on another child smaller than himself, he cracked his knuckles menacingly. When Harry was younger, he always compared them to gunshots from the movies he'd overheard from his cupboard.

Dudley's hands had done a lot of damage – to Harry, and to the neighborhood and school kids. Harry watched his hands. If one of Dudley's victims got away, Dudley came after Harry. Harry needed to hear the crack of knuckles, to see those hands clenching into fists in preparation for a punch. He always had to be alert and on his toes, so he watched his hands.

...

Ron's hands were a worker's hands. The first time on the train to Hogwarts, when Harry saw Ron's hands, he had known that he was not afraid of sun or work. Ron's hands were tanned after a summer in the sun. Ron's hands had freckles over the tops of them and up his arms.

Ron's hands were strong, capable of holding a squirming rat (most of the time). Ron's hands were capable of playing Quidditch, but not of making potions. His fingernails were usually cut short, the better to stay out of the way during work. He had calluses across the tops of his palms, under his fingers.

Ron's hands were capable of causing pain too, though. He was a boy, after all. Sometimes when his anger got the better of him, would resort to punching Harry in the arm. It hardly left black and blue bruises, but if Ron was truly angry and not just joking around with Harry, he would miss the pain in his friend's eyes, betraying the pain in his heart.

But sometimes best friends caused each other pain. And Harry knew that Ron wasn't always angry at him, just as Harry wasn't always angry with Ron. Harry was hardly ever angry with Ron – no, he would hide his hurt.

Harry trusted Ron with his life. He was certain that would never change. But sometimes Ron hurt his feelings or his physical body, so Harry watched his hands. He couldn't help it anymore, not even with his best friend.

...

If Harry had one word to describe Hermione's hands, he would say they were quick, just like the rest of her. Hermione's hands were rather small, but they were strong. Even being a girl, she wasn't afraid to get dirty, and it showed in her hands. Harry knew, even before he was officially friends with her, that she would make a good friend. He hadn't wanted to be friends with her at first because of Ron, but that changed after that first Halloween with the troll. (Later, he realized that in those two months before they were friends, he had been acting exactly like the other kids in his Muggle primary school, afraid of becoming friends with Harry for fear of Dudley and his gang's wrath. But it was already too late, anyway. The best he could do was apologize to her for his stupidity in those first months.)

And she proved to be a great friend, just as he suspected she would. Her hands always gesticulated rather wildly when she was frustrated or annoyed. He liked to watch her hands as they held her quill when she was furiously scribbling notes in her perfect penmanship. That was another thing. Whatever she did with her hands turned out perfect. Her handwriting was flawless, her potions were the epitome of perfection, her wand movements were exact and precise.

One thing her hands did that he would likely never forget was when She Punched Draco Malfoy In The Face. That had been a moment that he and Ron and Hermione all fondly remembered in later years - when Hermione showed that rather than just mental strength and intelligence, she also possessed physical strength when her curled up hand showed just what she thought of someone.

...

When Gilderoy Lockhart grabbed Harry in the bookshop in Diagon Alley before his second year at Hogwarts, one of the first things he noticed, of course, were his soft hands. These were not the hands of someone who'd supposedly fought off a werewolf, a vampire, a ghoul, and a troll, among others. These were the hands of a businessman - all smoothness and softness and no calluses or scars or cuts to speak of. These were the hands of a man whose most risky endeavor was choosing whether or not he would wear white shoes after Labor Day (which he obviously shouldn't).

It was in the moment he grabbed him, before he had even said a word or given his first class, that Harry knew that his new Defense teacher was a fraud.

...

Professor Lupin had rather hairy hands, Harry thought after he'd left the compartment in the Hogwarts Express on his way to his third year. Usually - at least in movies - the hairy man was the bad man. But Professor Lupin seemed very kind - and at the very least, knowledgeable about what he would soon be teaching - Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He wasn't particularly wary about the new professor, however. While the clothes he wore were plain, ragged, and unassuming, and could've very well been a good cover-up (like Quirrell's stutter his first year), hands didn't lie. And Professor Lupin's hands were not the hands of an evil minion of the Dark Lord. His hands were rather large, yes, but they seemed to hold a strange sort of elegance about them that one normally wouldn't expect of one with hands that large. They were larger than most, sure, but not so much that it would be noticed by anyone who didn't watch hands, such as Harry.

His hands were gentle, though, as Harry knew by all of the private lessons he had with the kind man. Lupin guided Harry's hands into the proper wand movement before he released the boggart, and his hands were always there to lift him back up when the Dementor's effects got to him.

When the professor turned into a werewolf however, his hands were no longer hands - they were paws with large claws at the end. He loved Professor Lupin, but he knew what the werewolf could do if he wasn't on his Wolfsbane. Those hands could cause a lot of damage.

But he trusted his professor, so he didn't worry about it. He didn't need to watch the hands of one of his parents' best friends. Not when it wasn't the full moon, anyway.

...

Alastor Moody's hands were scarred and disfigured. They were the hands of a soldier. Even through his harsh demeanor, Harry felt he could trust the candid professor. Those hands showed that he wasn't an Auror for nothing. He wasn't afraid of getting hurt himself to protect everyone else.

When Moody was revealed to be Barty Crouch Junior, the man who'd led him to Voldemort's resurrection, he found it difficult to trust even the man who'd been duped - the real Moody. Because he'd always had the mentality that hands don't lie. But Crouch's lied.

...

Voldemort's hand was held out to Wormtail, demanding his arm. With his hand on full display as it was, Harry had to stare, even through his excruciating pain in his scar.

His hands were pale, whiter than Harry had ever seen in his life. He could see every single vein trailing through his fingers and up his arms. His fingers were spindly and thin, nothing like Harry had ever seen before. His fingernails were sharp as knives - Harry was certain they would cut just as easily.

His hands pressed to his scar minutes later, and Harry knew - no hands other than Lord Voldemort's could cause such an agony of pain. This was the monster whose hands had taken his parents' lives - among many hundreds or even thousands of others.

Voldemort's hands were nothing short of evil.

...

Dolores Umbridge's hands were stubby. That was the best Harry could describe them. Her fingernails were always painted some shade of pink, completely unassuming.

Those hands were cruel, though - and quick. Harry would never forget how her hand darted up to slap his cheek when he was caught Flooing in her office and she didn't like his answer to her question. He hadn't even seen it coming - not fast enough. He had no time to duck out of the way.

He watched her hands always. But some things slipped past.

...

Sirius Black's hands were rather dirty the first time Harry came face to face with him. His fingernails were ragged - some long, and some bitten down or torn. That was to be expected of an escapee from Azkaban, Harry supposed. And then the running from the Ministry for a year, of course...

But underneath the dirt and grime and wear were hands that held natural grace. The fingers were long - they were piano player fingers.

When he saw him again next, his hands were definitely looking better. They weren't so skeletal, and the fingernails were taken care of much better. His godfather clearly - whether he knew it consciously or not - cared very much about his hands.

When they were cleaning Grimmauld Place, they found a piano in one of the rooms no one had been in for years - not even Kreacher. Harry was pleased to watch as Sirius' hands moved skillfully over the keys, carrying on a tune that seemed familiar to Harry, but couldn't quite place.

Sirius' hands weren't as gentle as Remus', but they had the feel of a father to them. They weren't like Mrs. Weasley's hands - soft and motherly - but more like what Harry expected a father's hands to feel like. Not too soft, not too harsh, but just right.

Harry remembered when he had a nightmare one night over the summer, and Sirius was the one to wake him up. His hands were gentle and sure as he pulled Harry into a hug. When Harry broke down in tears, Sirius' hands were there to comfort him, one gently scratching his back and the other carding through his hair.

Harry liked Sirius' hands. They were always there, moving with graceful ease. His hand was the last thing he saw before he disappeared behind the Veil.

...

Professor Snape's hands were hands that Harry couldn't help but admire - even though he hated the man. Snape's hands were elegant, though not quite like Professor Lupin's. Snape's hands possessed a capable sort of grace. Snape's hands were sure and steady, perfect for measuring ingredients that would go into potions. The ends of his fingers and his fingernails were almost always stained with some potion or another, but it quite suited the dour professor.

Of course, even through that, the hands were clearly strong, and the fact that the professor hated him always made Harry warily watch those hands. He never knew when the hate might finally get to the professor and cause him to strike out, faster than a cobra. He'd seen those hands dart out before, to stop a student from adding an ingredient that would make their potion dangerous, and he knew that he possessed much more speed than even Aunt Petunia. If Snape decided Harry deserved a backhand rather suddenly, Harry wasn't even sure he could duck away in time.

So while he would've liked having hands like those, he stayed away from them as much as he could to avoid getting hurt, to avoid further pain. Who knew what sort of damage those hands could do?

He learned exactly what damage they could do in his sixth year, when it was by Snape's hands that Albus Dumbledore died.

...

Dumbledore's hands were old, wrinkled. But they were fairly well kept - for an old man, anyway. But Harry could see the quiet strength in the old man - could almost see the magic the headmaster possessed. The lines on his hands and his palms betrayed his true age, but they also showed what he'd been through. Much like Moody's hands, Dumbledore had clearly been through many battles.

Harry trusted his mentor's hands. He'd never had cause not to.

In his sixth year, he worried for the headmaster, because of his hand. It was blackened...cursed.

He later learned that that hand is what caused the headmaster's death, and not Snape's curse.

...

Draco Malfoy's hands were the hands of an aristocrat. They were smooth, unblemished, pale...

But they cast curses, hexes, and jinxes. Harry had been the recipient of several of these harmful spells. He suspected that the elder Malfoy had taught him curses from a very young age. They should come easily to him.

But in the Astronomy Tower, at the end of sixth year, he didn't miss how his hands shook as they held the wand pointed at Dumbledore, threatening to cast the Killing Curse. He didn't miss how his hands faltered, just before the Death Eaters entered.

Draco didn't want to kill Dumbledore. That was abundantly clear to him. But when Harry had been caught when he was on the run for Horcruxes and brought to Malfoy Manor, he'd never suspected that Draco didn't want to kill him, either. Draco's hand held his chin in place so he could study his face, but he didn't rat him out. He didn't want that on his hands.

And that's why, during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry saved him from the Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement by reaching for his hand, and grabbing it and pulling him to safety.

...

Hagrid's hands were the largest hands Harry had ever seen. He compared them to dustbin lids – they were very closely the same size. But they were kind – not like his relatives' hands. He remembered being told by the half giant himself that he had been carried out of Godric's Hollow by Hagrid when he was 15 months old. Dumbledore had sent Hagrid in his stead. That was proof enough of the large man's kindness and trustworthiness.

Harry watched hands because that's what he did. But he didn't really need to watch his friend's hands for fear of a blow, and he knew that.

He watched Hagrid's hands while they cared for a baby dragon with all the tenderness of a mother. He watched while they petted affectionately at his boarhound, Fang. He watched while they played on a flute he'd whittled himself. He watched while they planted flowers and squashes, and while they made up a pot of tea. He watched while they wiped tears away at Aragog's death, and while they waved at him from the Gryffindor stands while he played Quidditch. Hagrid's hands were the hands that carried him to Hogwarts from the Forbidden Forest after he had been declared dead at Voldemort's hand, while tears dripped down his face and into his beard.

Yes, Harry reflected, Hagrid's hands were kind. He had nothing to fear from Hagrid's hands.

...

Harry looked out at the lake beside Hogwarts, watching as the sun reflected on the water. Sunrise was always the best time of day for him to think without anyone else bothering him.

The battle was over. Voldemort was dead. They had won.

But Harry didn't feel congratulatory. It had only been 24 hours since he had finally killed the man who had destroyed his parents, leaving him with a sad childhood. He was still mourning for all those who had died in this war.

He thought of all of the hands he had studied and noticed before – the hands that would never move again. There was Voldemort, of course. And Dumbledore…and Remus, and Sirius, and Moody, and Tonks, and Snape. Countless others – countless hands…all with their own story, engraved on their hands.

Harry knew that his hands were dirty. Metaphorically dirty, but wasn't that so much worse than literally? He could never wash the blood away. It would always be there, under his fingernails like a stain. His hands had done so much. They had killed Professor Quirrell in his first year, they had killed a basilisk, grabbed the TriWizard cup that turned out to be a portkey so that he could be brought to Lord Voldemort's resurrection. These hands held scars due to the corruption of a ministry official. They had pressed to Dumbledore's chest as though hoping to find a heartbeat; these hands had destroyed Horcruxes.

Harry knew many things about his hands. He knew that he had a scar on his right hand that would never go away – that said "I must not tell lies". No balm or potion would get rid of the scars there. He knew that his palms were calloused, thanks to the garden work he did on Privet Drive, as well as playing Quidditch for years. He knew that he was double-jointed in his left thumb, and that he always tried to keep his fingernails clipped as short as they could. He knew that he had abrasions on his knuckles, due to the battle that had gone on the day before. he knew that the roughness on the top of his hands would probably never go away – he suspected that it was in his genes. He knew that he had black hair lightly dusting the tops of his hands.

He knew all of these facts, but he could never figure out what they meant for himself.

Harry studied hands, because that's what he did. He didn't remember a time when he hadn't watched hands. He always remembered hands – if he saw hands, he could identify the person.

But Harry was afraid of what he would find if he tried to identify himself. he was afraid that all of the signs my point to the fact that he might be dangerous. After all, he had killed – and more than once.

So Harry tucked his hands underneath him, sitting on top of them, and didn't look. His hands were hands that he was determined to never study.

...

A/N Please let me know what you thought of it! :)


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